Out of the Loop
by Pivot
Summary: Armada: Skywarp's fellow jets - and Scavenger - conspire to give him a very bad day...


_Disclaimer: The Transformers aren't mine and nor is Cybertron. (Pity. The rent would be handy.) The admins, techs and security guards are mine (ran 'em off the photocopier specially); all the canon cast belong to Hasbro._

_Oh heavens. I think it's done. This thing's been occupying my brain for about a year now, and it's finally done. Wow. So. Half a dozen rewrites and two rounds of beta-reading later (thanks, ckret and Seiberwing! We love you!) it… is done. Well, until I spot something tomorrow and come back to fix it, but there you go._

_This follows on from 'Starglaring', but one shouldn't need to read that to understand this. So. On with the Seekers._

* * *

**Out of the Loop**

He stalked.

It came naturally to him; it always had. He did try to excel at his tasks, and as he never tried his hand at anything without making sure that it paid off, his efforts invariably met with success. Talent, coupled with millions of years of practice, made him very good at stalking.

And Skywarp knew this. The knowledge gave him a very faint sense of satisfaction. But he was used to that, and it was nothing compared to the anger he was feeling.

_Bad enough he had to come back at all, but this-!_

The black and purple Seeker stopped suddenly. A quick glance confirmed that he was alone in the hallway. Skywarp paused; for a moment it appeared as though he might be hesitating – but then he reached up and detached his wing-sword in one quick, decisive movement.

Skywarp stared at the blade and wondered, as he hadn't for a long time, if he should trade it in. It wouldn't be difficult, really, to find a technician who would replace it with a normal wing, and then…

His optics narrowed above his mask. No, he decided, slaggit, he wasn't going to let himself be robbed of that, too. Skywarp's sword was _his, _and he wasn't going to get rid of it on his cousin's account. And it'd be dumb to lose a perfectly good weapon, especially considering all the time he'd spent learning how to use it.

It was a double-edged sword, though; for all its usefulness, for all that it marked him as someone not to be messed with, it was a feature that connected him with at least one person he didn't want it to. It wasn't entirely to blame for that, of course, but anyone who knew Starscream was liable to notice the similarity, and it wasn't a common feature for a Seeker to have…

In fact, the only other Seeker he could easily recall with a wing-sword had been Thundercracker. This was a kinship Skywarp didn't mind at all. His old tutor had been a model Decepticon, more than worthy of his respect. Besides, his association with Thundercracker hadn't led to his being promoted beyond his deserts – at least, there'd been no rumours of _that._

Skywarp scowled and replaced his sword. Thundercracker had been worth a hundred times as much as Starscream even if his fate _had_ been a bit shadowy.

"Hello, Skywarp!"

The black and purple Seeker froze. _I might have known_… _but not him, please! The last thing I need…_

It was bound to happen, of course. The whole point of Megatron's mission had been to retrieve as many Minicons as possible; Skywarp should have expected something like this. He'd _known_ Minicons had been brought back, Thrust had told him earlier that some of them had stayed with the Decepticons, and yet…

And yet a part of him had hoped that they might have left one particular Minicon behind…

"Guess who," said a small, cheerful, utterly insufferable voice by his right shoulder.

"Thunderclash," he acknowledged coolly, not bothering to look around. He knew what he'd see, anyway: a small grey and lavender jet Minicon with an orange-red visor. And a smirk.

Skywarp had heard that some Decepticons got along quite well with their Minicons; indeed, he himself had nothing in particular against the smaller robots, and might have been quite amiable towards any such partnership. (Provided the Minicon was _good_ at the job, of course.)

Which perhaps made it even more of a shame that his usual assigned partner was, in Skywarp's opinion, the foulest being ever to be issued wings. (Starscream was excluded on the grounds of being more stupid and useless than foul.) Thunderclash was barely a decent pilot, but he was the master of his social network, an opportunistic manipulator and a dealer in favours. Skywarp, professional to the core and concerned with proving himself only on his own merits, found him repellent.

There was a possibility, Skywarp acknowledged, that there were some Autobots who were worse. It was not one he really believed in. Autobots were low, true, but he couldn't imagine that any of them were quite as bad as Thunderclash.

Given his intense devotion of time and loyalty to the Decepticon cause, that just about said it all, really.

"Oh, wonderful, you _do _remember my name."

"More than that; I put it forward for assignment to a scientific colony every other week."

Thunderclash let that pass without comment; being associated with Skywarp was the kind of standing he really didn't want to endanger. That, and if he did respond, Skywarp would happily expound on the details of why, exactly, being recommended for such a transfer was something Thunderclash didn't want.

Decepticons were terribly useful, really, but they could be so very trying.

"So," he said cheerily, "looks like we'll be working together, eh?"

Skywarp held back a biting remark. Talking to Thunderclash only encouraged him. You had to ignore him; he was bound to use anything you said against you. Worse, the more time spent in conversation with him, the more opportunities he had to talk you round to seeing things the way he wanted you to.

"Shut up," he said, and started walking away, doubly annoyed that he couldn't vent his resentment on the greasy little slagger.

Thunderclash just kept pace with him. "I've been out of the loop all this time." The pilot shook his head in a display of chagrin. "You'll have to fill me in before we get back to work." Skywarp was convinced he could hear oil in the Minicon's vocals every time Thunderclash spoke.

The Seeker paused. There was only so much of this he was going to take, and it was he who was going to have to draw the line somewhere. Unless… well, it had been a million years. Maybe he remembered Thunderclash as worse than he actually was.

"Oh, I just remembered!" At Thunderclash's exclamation, the Seeker turned to regard him with indifference. The hovering Minicon put on a distressed look. "I don't suppose you've heard about Starscream?"

Never mind. Thunderclash was every bit as repulsive as he'd remembered.

"The tactician told me." _I guess Thrust did me a favour; get the news early and you don't have to talk to Thunderclash for it. _Skywarp turned away and continued his stalking. _You can go and rig his quarters later - after you request a change of partners. Or request to have no partner at all. There's probably some dumb sap out there who'd jump at the chance to have a Minicon._

"Oh." Thunderclash hovered, taken aback for a moment; then he recovered himself and flew after the Decepticon. "Pity. I'd hoped to break the news to you myself."

_I'll bet you did,_ thought Skywarp, carefully tracking the pest's position as he chattered.

"Still, there's plenty to catch up on, eh? Ow!"

Skywarp held the little monstrosity up to optic level. "Right," he said calmly, "the first thing I ought to tell you about is the new zero-tolerance policy brought in while you were away. The second thing I should tell you before I act on it is that I-" he keyed a nearby door open with his free hand- "-have had-" the door opened "-enough."

"But-" Thunderclash didn't manage to finish his protest as he was dumped into the storage cupboard. Skywarp closed the door before he could pick himself up.

Skywarp ignored the muffled noises from the cupboard as he locked it. Some time to himself would do Thunderclash good.

It might even teach him to shut up when he was told.

In the cupboard, Thunderclash staggered to his feet and viewed the door regretfully.

"I suppose you didn't want to hear about your _other_ cousin, then?"

* * *

After his encounter with Thunderclash, Skywarp really wasn't in the mood to deal with people. Unfortunately his wish for solitude went entirely unnoticed, as was proven a moment later when he turned a corner sharply and nearly ran into another Seeker.

"Watch it," he hissed – and almost stopped there, because he was practically nose-to-nose with the one Decepticon he hated most.

"Well, look who's back," he said slowly, backing away a step or two and circling around the blue flier.

So, Starscream had a new paintjob… for a moment Skywarp had almost mistaken him for Thundercracker. Was that the intention: to look like their old teacher? Skywarp's optics narrowed even further at the thought. Never mind the insult to Thundercracker, wherever he was now: if Starscream was trying to gain points by playing up that old connection, then he was just as bad as Thunderclash.

Yet another reason to hate him. Oh, joy.

"Skywarp," greeted Starscream coolly, turning to face his cousin. If he was surprised, he couldn't be bothered to show it. "Still making a nuisance of yourself, I suppose." It was the closest thing to a greeting that he could muster. This was _not_ a good time as far as he was concerned.

Skywarp snorted. "Hah. Still disgracing yourself as a Decepticon, I hear."

The newly blue Seeker's temper flared, but he settled for glaring at the masked one. "That," he snarled, "is none of your business."

_Check comeback, recover self, choose response that won't result in trouble._ "Of course not. Sir." Skywarp's optics were oddly bright. _Oh? None of my business, is it? None of my business, you-_

Starscream gave a 'hmph' and walked past, muttering half to himself, "You'd be better off looking into the likes of Scavenger and Sideways…"

"What?" Skywarp spun to face the other Seeker. "Scavenger?" he repeated, trying to clarify his query as Starscream gave him a disinterested look.

"Yes," said Starscream slowly, "some idiot sent us an Autobot agent…"

"Hold on, hold on," Skywarp interrupted, earning himself a ferocious glare on principle. "_Scavenger?_ Big guy, construction vehicle alt-mode, green and purple mostly, likes to wipe the floor with the unwary?"

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"An _Autobot?_" For a moment he was actually dumbfounded, but disbelief surged to his rescue. "Riiight."

"Ask Cyclonus if you don't believe me." Starscream's attempt at a disinterested tone was marred by his growing irritation.

"Scavenger was an Autobot?" asked the black one in a low voice. _Oh, no. No slagging way…how could _he_ be a… yuck. _

_I actually hung out with an _Autobot

"He even tutored Prime."

"_How did he get in here, then?"_

"Don't ask me; hunting down traitors and spies is _your_ job, remember?" Starscream shook his head and carried on down the hallway. He had much more important things to think about than his cousin's peculiarities…

Skywarp watched him go, not really paying attention. He was stunned. It was appalling. An Autobot agent, _here?_ Here, in the core of Decepticon territory?

Right in front of his optics?

And… and… Scavenger? Was that believable at all?

Yes, he realised, yes it was.

Skywarp roused himself, stirred to action, and very, very annoyed.

_Right. Somebody had better tell me what the fragging _Pit_ is going on!_

* * *

The command centre of the base was impressive. It was supposed to be. The whole point of having two tiers was to impress people, or at least to give whoever was on the upper tier the opportunity to lean over the rail and roar at their underlings. Megatron liked it. During his absence, however, the tradition had been replaced by the occasional admin or visitor leaning over the rail and waving at their friends on duty. The temporary ruler had not discouraged this, provided they only did it when he wasn't around.

The centre was quieter now than it had been in months, since Galvatron had returned, although (and because) he hadn't been up to inspect it yet. It wasn't brightly lit because it cost a silly amount of energy to run without having floodlights as well, and because when the staff was given a budget and a choice between decent lighting and an internal email/IM system, they knew what they had to do.

If the lower tier was dimly lit, the upper one was lit only by the glow from the bank of computer screens it housed. Pending Galvatron's arrival, the bot who was temporarily in charge stood in front of these screens (the only chair was huge, and Galvatron's, and the Temp claimed he didn't like it anyway).

The Temp, as his easier-going underlings had taken to calling him, was also wondering if it was too late in his tenancy to use one of the job's privileges – to 'pull a Megatron' and blast his comlink into oblivion. Notwithstanding the problems of damaging the main command centre, he'd probably have done it, too.

Would have, if the problematical comlink hadn't been built into his arm.

"_When?_" demanded the other half of the conversation, interrupting thoughts on amputations, the resultant handicaps, and the difficulty he would subsequently have in carrying as many datapads as he wanted to. Aides made an inefficient filing system unless you had the rare ability to tell them apart.

He dragged his attention back to the question at hand. When, indeed? 

"When the war ends," snapped Retort, and shut off his end of the link. Weren't underlings supposed to shut up when you told them to? Stupid tank. He had more important things to deal with.

"Ah, sir…?" One of the aides hovering by him motioned towards the nearest, and largest screen.

"Of course," he said wearily. "What _is_ that thing?"

The various Decepticons stared at it.

"Well," said an aide, "it's big, and black, and it… sucks things up…"

"A big black suck-up," muttered a 'bot Retort luckily couldn't see. "Reminds me of someone…"

"Shut up," mumbled an over-eager young admin named Glorytracker, who felt that starting a fan club for every one of your heroes didn't equate to being a suck-up.

"As I was saying," said the first aide loudly, scowling at the second, "it's… well, we really don't see what it could be other than a black hole."

"None of our scientists have anything to report," said another. "Unless 'what the circuit-frying slag is that?' counts."

"Now listen," Retort said firmly, "I know a few things about black holes. Firstly, we should have seen it coming a dozen light-years off, and secondly, if it were a black hole we'd all be dead by now. And three-"

"Thirdly," supplied Glorytracker helpfully. Retort twisted around to glare up at him.

"It's too small," he said, turning back to the screen. "It's tiny. It's not even half the size of this planet. It's ridiculous!"

The other Decepticons felt that this was true. Black holes of the miniature variety were not a detail that had been covered in their training. While none of them were experts, they were sure that such things weren't supposed to exist. Of course, things like Autobots probably weren't supposed to exist either.

In a way, Retort was insulted. Defending the base and Cybertron and hopefully his own shell was a worthy cause in his opinion, but this…! A tiny, pathetic little black hole that wasn't a proper black hole but would probably be dangerous anyway… well, Retort took it very personally, as an administrator, as a Decepticon, and as a closet control freak.

"Just find out what it is," Retort said with mounting irritation, and about three of his aides hurried away. _I suppose we can't clamp it, _he thought.

His remaining aides scattered. Retort shook his head. _Not again._

"So their terror of Galvatron doesn't overshadow your reputation," he observed. Behind him, Skywarp snorted.

"Not when I'm in the same room and he isn't." The Seeker moved forward to stand beside him, gaze moving to the screen in front of them. "Know what it is yet?"

"No," said Retort sourly. "And you heard us discussing so. There's no need to rub it in."

"Now, now, don't sulk," chided Skywarp, a shadow in the low light, optics glowing softly although it probably wasn't possible. "You'll start to sound like Starscream."

"Starscream?" Retort turned and gave him a befuddled look. Skywarp did not talk about him. "Oh, yes… he's back, isn't he?" _Is that what he's here about?_

"Mmm. And I've heard some other fascinating news, too."

"No doubt you're about to share it." _All right: what's happened now?_

"Oh, indeed I am." Skywarp leaned forward slightly, intent on the admin's face. "Remember Scavenger?"

"Of course. He was here for some time; you and he used to work together quite often," Retort recited. "One of our better finds. You were rather pleased to find someone who presented a challenge during training."

"A challenge during battle, now. Why didn't you know he was an Autobot agent?"

Retort stared. "Are you serious?" he demanded, knowing the question was redundant: it was Skywarp telling him.

"Oh, yes. Deadly serious. And I'm asking you: why didn't you know?"

"How should I?" snapped Retort indignantly. "I'm not in Intelligence."

"You _were_, though; don't tell me you don't have sources. Admins talk – too much, usually." Skywarp watched him earnestly. There were questions demanding answers, and not only because an Autobot did _not_ just wander into a Decepticon base and pass themselves off as a high-ranking officer. (Especially a really, really _good_ officer, he thought, and the eager gaze hardened a little.)

A smile flickered across Retort's face for an instant and then vanished faster than it had appeared. "Well, yes, but Intelligence can't tell me what they don't know. And apparently they didn't know this."

"Why not?"

"I'll be very interested to know that myself. Although… if it was Scavenger…" Retort gave a twisted, nervous smile at the Seeker's stare. "He always was good at his job."

"More true than we knew," said Skywarp bitterly. "Why do people always know things I don't want them to and miss the things they're supposed to know?"

Retort considered him. "You're referring to Starscream again? Skywarp, most people don't know you've ever had anything to do with him, and most of them don't care." _If you weren't so resentful, _I _probably wouldn't have found out._

"Which doesn't help me if the rumours start flying again."

"I think those were winged some time ago," said Retort. "_I_ certainly haven't heard anything of the sort for a long while. Besides, if your effect on my aides is anything to go by, then nobody is questioning that your status was earned without help."

"Good." Skywarp glanced over at one or two nervous-looking admins hovering at a safe distance; they backed away under his gaze, much to his satisfaction. "Still," he said, turning back to the amused Retort, "I can't believe it: _Scavenger_ an Autobot…"

"Go on patrol," advised Retort. _Get out of my nice neat control centre. _"Skip your next shift, if you like. If it gets you out flying in the fresh air and bothering people who aren't my underlings, I'll happily authorise it." _Besides, we're all about to be sucked into an underdeveloped black hole and die horrible embarrassing deaths, so what does it matter? _"And," he added hastily, "I'll see what I can do about Intelligence in the meantime."

"Thank you, O Temp of Temps," Skywarp sniggered, "but I won't be that long." Retort nodded, turning back to the screen as the Seeker left.

"Yes, they all say that," he conceded, "before they go."

"Er, sir? There's an Autobot…"

"Another one? Good grief, they're cropping up everywhere, aren't they? How many thousands are there now?"

The aides slowly returned from whatever corners they'd been hiding in. "Uh, I meant here, sir," said Glorytracker uneasily. "He just ran in…"

"What's he doing?" asked another aide, peering at a screen.

"I think he's invading…"

"Did you think that sending security might be an idea?" asked Retort coolly.

"Oh, yes-"

"Well, did you send them?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well… good."

* * *

Security was a good job, usually, but not when cleaning was involved.

Treadshift groaned quietly to himself, shifting the pile of cleaning supplies in his arms as he trudged over to the storage cupboard, so that he'd be able to open it with one hand. Balancing the pile awkwardly with his left arm – he was after all a tank and not exactly graceful about it – he managed to manipulate the keypad.

The instant the door opened, something small and grey shot past him; Treadshift yelped in surprise and nearly dropped everything.

"Finally!" declared a voice behind him; the annoyed security bot turned to glare at the hovering Minicon, who seemed to notice him for the first time. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry about that," apologised Thunderclash smoothly. "I was in there for _such_ a long time…"

"Yeah, whatever." Treadshift shrugged and started to turn around again when he got an urgent message over his comlink. He listened for a second with increasing delight, and then looked back at Thunderclash. "Here, put these away," he said, dumping his entire armload on top of the Minicon. "I've gotta go: security business."

This was much more like it, he thought cheerfully to himself as he ran to obey the alert. Sure, it was only one intruder, but who knew? He might get a chance to try out his new flamethrower.

Somewhere on the other side of the base, the alarm went off. The invasion had begun.

* * *

The alarm sounded.

Jolted out of his thoughts, Skywarp slowed his pace. He might be called back. _The Autobots aren't attacking _now_, are they? I thought they were all freaking out about that black hole thing._

He tuned into the security channels and listened.

"…_Could be a ruse, get another squad up to Gate Three…"_

"…_One _so far_, idiots. Get moving or you'll be scrapped with him!"_

They hadn't summoned him yet, anyway. Skywarp sped up towards the door he'd planned to leave by. If it was a matter of defending the base… well, he'd seen the state of their defences earlier. That damn black hole had torn at the planet's surface, and left piles of scrap in the place of artillery emplacements. The base had shields, but they weren't designed to counter gravity: they had eventually been raised when the flying debris became sufficient to threaten the base.

_Which leaves us with whatever manually operated artillery is left, weakened shields, and maybe a few of the base's defences, if the techs have managed to salvage any. Oh, and whatever firepower we have to hand._

His sword-wing twitched.

_Can't say I didn't come prepared._

The security 'bots on the door were obviously nervous. One kept glancing up at the looming black monstrosity in the sky. Skywarp gave him a clout to the head. "Straighten up and pay attention," he snapped.

"Yessir!"

Ignoring their visible relief, he surveyed the ranks forming up downhill – the ground sloped away gently on this side of the base. A pair of anti-aircraft guns was being dragged into place nearby by straining mechanoids, only one of whom was really big enough for the job. Skywarp guessed they were the techs who'd been working on repairing the guns when they were ordered out: the supervisor bellowing directions to them had set him straight on a few details of artillery repair when he'd come here first.

At last the ranks below were ordered and quiet, and the anti-aircraft guns were in position. The supervising tech set her underlings to some new task around them, and glanced around. Spotting Skywarp lurking in the doorway, she marched up the slope and gave him a perfunctory salute.

Something was a little off about her outline, he thought; closer inspection showed the pieces of shrapnel lodged deep in her shoulders, obviously not problematic enough for her to have bothered pulling them out yet. There was something to be said for having a vehicle mode with thick treads.

"Any idea how long we've got, sir?" she asked, with less respect than the words implied. But then, she was shouting over the alarm.

Skywarp shook his head in response. He could hear the faint sound of jet engines above them, but he didn't think there were many. Someone up in the command centre finally got around to turning off the alarm.

"I've got 'em reinforcing all the gunning placements we have, but half of 'em aren't secure and there weren't a lot to start with." She eyed the scene and growled. "Comes to something when we're hoping for AA guns to save our shells – and I wouldn't bet ten credits the slag-headed bootlegs have any aircraft _left_."

"I don't think we'll need them," the Seeker said. _And it looks like Base Command agrees with me. Huh. _The initial surge of activity had fallen off in the absence of further orders; Command seemed to have lost interest. _Wonder what spooked them? _

The tech looked like she was about to speak, but at that moment the alarm wailed into life again with renewed vigour.

"_Commence base lockdown! All available units to level sixteen!"_

The tech cursed loud enough for him to hear as she stormed down to rejoin her team.

"Whoops," said Skywarp. _I guess the Universal Laws of Slag don't like a true sense of security._

He went inside before the jittery guards could remember the right code for the door and lock him out. The fidgety one fumbled at the controls, so Skywarp kindly thumped him again to help him focus.

And then, being what might technically be classified as 'available' (or, as most officers called it, 'loitering'), he made his way down to level sixteen.

* * *

Thunderclash tapped a few more keys, idly sifting the security-speak on the guards' channels. It didn't tell him much beyond that someone was in major trouble, although in fairness, some of the officers had informed each other that someone had major firepower on his side, so maybe someone would get off lightly after all.

It had taken about ten minutes for him to reach the right barracks, talk two Minicons into letting him use 'their' computer, go through a number of files and find out what he wanted. Unfortunately, his prolonged absence meant that quite a few contacts would have to be renewed – he'd called one administrator already to say that he was back, and by the way, remember our little agreement about Level Three personnel files? Even where it was as easy as that – and it usually wasn't – it would take some time for his 'special status' to be reinstated.

Some contacts would have to be replaced completely: he'd tried calling one requisitions officer only to find that his old acquaintance had been dead for some centuries. The new 'bot would take some working on, he decided, after the link had been abruptly closed from the other end.

This wasn't getting him anywhere, and there were opportunities he was missing.

"I'll be back later," he said to the two bots lounging in the corner. "Just, ah, don't give my space away."

They nodded, engrossed in a datapad of some sort. Possibly they were teaching themselves to read, Thunderclash thought. His initial conversation with them had left him with certain strong impressions.

He'd really have to get some proper hold on them, he thought. Working computers were hard to come by in this part of the base. One with its own guards would be very useful.

Thunderclash made for the control centre. He knew how to get in, and just being in the room would tell him about the situation much faster than trying to talk to a beleaguered admin. He'd get back to his informants later. After a million years, the survivors should have some things of interest for him.

* * *

Glorytracker turned. "Sir, security reports they've lost Thrust."

"Sensors detect no sign of him," added another aide.

"Galvatron's orders are to continue the search."

"Keep searching, then." Retort viewed the screens with something akin to good humour. The little invasion was all right, judging by the fact that Galvatron had deigned to speak with the Autobot involved. Now they had another crisis on their hands, but – importantly – it wasn't his fault, and with any luck this fiasco would distract Galvatron from the impending report (the one that a few idiots jokingly entitled 'While You Were Away, Sir…').

He thought of the report with a sort of dread. For all he knew, it wasn't the first time his work had come to such exalted attention - but it was certainly the first time he'd be around to learn the response. Not that things had gone (particularly) badly, but…

It was such a shame that Galvatron had taken Starscream _and_ Cyclonus _and _Demolisher away with him. Because of this foresight, Retort was in the unprecedented position of a Temp with no established scapegoat to put the blame on. Instead, he had Skywarp, and blame did not stick to Skywarp because his record was smear-repellent, whatever his reputation might be.

It was all so very unfair.

And Skywarp would be perfectly honest in _his _report; therefore Retort would have to be in his. There were a few minor matters he would have to mention, and some instances where someone had undeniably screwed up; in a couple of cases, the error must have come from the command centre.

Oh, nobody could be cited as directly to blame, but that was the problem. If his report implicated someone, it would be much better for Retort than if the whole staff – and thus himself – were left open to suspicion. Galvatron might not care, but he wouldn't rely on that.

Just in case something did come up, then… A scapegoat.

Something – a Minicon – ducked past his foot and he kicked reflexively. "Out of the way, you." He didn't notice the tiny snicker behind him, being too preoccupied with composition to wonder why a Minicon was up there getting underfoot.

His wandering gaze fixed on Glorytracker, young and foolish and new to his job.

Oh, yes. Appalling.

So very unfair.

* * *

Skywarp was tired. He'd spent the last six hours hunting a runaway Thrust through tunnels, basements, unofficial stills even he hadn't known about and a tar-filled cavern he hoped never to visit again. He still didn't know why. (Why he'd done it, he corrected, realising what he was thinking. There was no question about the cavern.)

And so, dusty, weary, wings coated in viscous black goo, and reeking of high-grade, he traipsed back into the bits of the building that counted as Headquarters proper.

It did not help to discover that despite the itchiness of the tar, the slight corrosion on his gauntlet where a splash of 'ingredients' had hit it (duty dictated he confiscate the high-grade; tomorrow he would make the idiots drink it) and the urgent demands for a break from his aching servos, he could still think.

Worse, most of the mental functions under his control were either playing dead or preoccupied, so he had no way of stopping it. And now the fuss and excitement was over, it was picking up where it had left off.

It was probably the fumes from the amateur high-grade. Damn nostalgia. It liked dragging back murdered memories and slapping you in the face with their corpses. Especially the freshly-killed ones.

_Skies above, _Scavenger

He'd worked with the guy, for Primus's sake. They'd been… friends. But you couldn't trust anyone these days.

Unlike Thundercracker. Now _there_ was a Decepticon Skywarp could admire (apart from Megatron - Galvatron, but that went without saying). Only Thundercracker was gone…

_He might not be, _part of his mind persisted.

It was a belief Skywarp clung to fiercely. For all anyone knew, he was on a top-secret mission – with anyone else, it would be a joke of an excuse, but if Megatron would send anyone to get a job done, it would be Thundercracker.

Besides, rumour had it that the two had met for some time before the latter's disappearance. Skywarp, of all people, knew better than to trust rumours, but he was still inclined to believe in a secret mission. It seemed the only plausible explanation, after all, for the disappearance of a super-skilled, highly valuable paragon of loyalty…

It would do until a better one turned up, anyway. Besides which was the simple fact that Skywarp preferred to think of Thundercracker that way. There were worse (though improbable) possibilities.

He wandered into one of the several unofficial break rooms that were scattered around the base and nodded to the other visible occupant: a white tank-bot whose main weapon was apparently in pieces on the table in front of him. "Hey, Treadshift."

The security guard nodded absently, clearly preoccupied with maintenance matters. This didn't mean Skywarp was to be left in peace, however, as at that moment the room's other, hitherto unnoticed, resident decided to speak up.

"Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you."

"Push off, Thunderclash."

"Don't you want to hear about the Autobot?"

"What…" he began, then glared at the Minicon. "Did they get him?"

"Yeah, Galvatron…"

"Great. Take off."

"But you haven't heard yet!"

Skywarp didn't look at the Minicon, but his optics dimmed. "I don't think I want to."

"But I've been getting in touch with all my old contacts," Thunderclash spoke very fast as the Seeker started reaching for his sword, "and you won't believe what I heard about Thundercracker!"

"Thunderclash. I don't want to hear it." Skywarp's gaze fixed directly onto the grey Minicon at last. "_I've_ had over a million years in your absence to demonstrate my worth alone; how indispensable do you really think you are?"

"More than you realise," said Thunderclash quietly.

"Less than your social contacts realise, you mean. But they'll work it out one day, and then where will you be?"

"Well out of reach, I should think.".

"We'll see." Skywarp dropped his interest in the Minicon and sat down at the table, slumping over the surface and giving a quiet groan to himself. For a few minutes he was apparently lost in his own thoughts; then he looked up at the tank-bot. "Do you know how long I've been in the army, Treadshift?"

The security guard paused. Treadshift, who was to local arms dealers and transform designers what small boys were to toy companies, wanted a great many things. Death was not among them. Death by Skywarp doubly so. A hasty review of the masked Seeker's reputation confirmed this.

"No," he said meekly, looking up from the component in his fingers.

"Eight million years," Skywarp told him. "Eight million years give or take a few millennia. And in all that time," he continued mournfully, "I've known a grand total of two people who were actually really good at their jobs. One of them I haven't seen in a long, long time; he's probably left the Decepticons-"

"You mean Starscream?" asked Thunderclash. Skywarp ignored the grinning Minicon.

"The other," he went on, "turned out to have been an Autobot all along."

"That one's Starscream, right?"

"Oh," said Treadshift.

There was a pause as if everyone was trying to work out what came next.

"Which one was Starscream?" asked Thunderclash.

"Neither," snapped Skywarp. "I said 'competent', didn't I? Obviously I couldn't have been referring to Starscream. I never said anything about him. I don't want to _hear_ about Starscream."

"All right." Thunderclash knew when not to push someone, even if his judgment was based on personal concerns rather than any care for their mental health.

"Actually, you didn't say 'competent'," Treadshift pointed out. He fidgeted nervously as the Seeker turned on him. "You said-"

"Know something, 'Shifty?" Skywarp interrupted coolly, causing the other 'bot to squirm uncomfortably again and fiddle with the component he was holding.

"No-"

"Too right: you're a moron."

Treadshift rechecked the mental inventory. Nope, still no death wish.

"Yes sir," he said tiredly. It had been a long day. Flaming Autobots, chasing turncoats, receiving a verbal thumping from fellow Decepticons…

Well, at least his new flamethrower had done him proud. That was something.

Skywarp gave him an incredulous stare. "Have you got any back structure at all?"

The tank pondered this. "What, you mean like my turret?"

"…Never mind." Skywarp gave a quiet snigger. He didn't have enough energy to appreciate the funny side of things at the moment, but it was still worth acknowledging them. And keeping them in mind for later.

He tilted his head back with dim optics, and contemplated the prospect of a good cleaning cycle. "Six hours," he muttered, "and they don't even tell us what's going on."

Treadshift looked up in surprise. "What, you didn't hear? Thrust took two of those Minicon weapons-"

"Skyboom and the Blaster," supplied Thunderclash.

"…Yeah, those, and ran off earlier, right in front of Galvatron. Dumb, huh?" The security bot chuckled, too tired to care if it got him in trouble. "You really are out of the loop."

Thunderclash grinned at Skywarp. "Fast, eh?" He looked up at Treadshift and went on conversationally. "It usually takes a few years before his friends run away from the Decep-"

The grey and lilac Minicon leapt aside with a startled beep as purple lasers singed his right wing. Skywarp turned to Treadshift. "Did you know," he asked, conversationally, "that Thunderclash has been helping Retort, pulling all the strings in his little social network to stop you from getting any new alt-modes?"

"Huh? So _that's_…" The tank-former's optics widened above his faceplate; he dropped the part on the table, starting up and towards the Minicon; Thunderclash, seeing that his chances of denying his guilt were nonexistent, fled. Treadshift gave chase, bashing against table and doorway on the way.

Left to himself, the Seeker sat down again and stared at the table. Skywarp didn't actually know if what he'd said was true, nor did he care.

…But what a day.

He hadn't succeeded in getting rid of Thunderclash, but still, he thought he wouldn't have any trouble with Starscream for a while. Then again, he had lost two potential allies. Not that he could have done anything to stop it; that sort were all lost causes as far as he was concerned. Thrust, well, you never could tell. But _Scavenger_…

The sound of jet engines and a yell filtered through the door. Skywarp folded his arms on the table, buried his face in them and shut off his optics. What a smegging day.

And he was _still_ the only one he could count on.


End file.
